


An Angel With A Badge

by MarvelSupernatural



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Agent Castiel Novak, Agent Dean Winchester, Angst, DeanCas - Freeform, Death, Destiel - Freeform, Everyone basically knows, FBI, Kissing, Love, M/M, Multi, Smut, So so so bad at tagging, except those two goons, eye fucking, fixing each other, romantic, the story is better than this I promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-06-27 02:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15676512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelSupernatural/pseuds/MarvelSupernatural
Summary: “Yeah, Katherine? Schedule a transfer for an agent please.”“Yes, sir. To which branch, sir?”“FBI headquarters in DC. Effective immediately.”There’s a pause and sounds of keyboard keys clicking before the woman resurfaces. “Okay. Which agent are you transferring, sir?”Robert spares a glance outside his office and onto the platform beneath. “Winchester. Dean Winchester.”______A lot of things can happen in the span of five years. Ever since the pair tainted the name of the FBI, they’ve been separated; with one going far out in the country and the other staying in the heart of the country. One is married, the other is a widower. One has a child, the other lost his. Despite their nonexistent relationship with one another after what happened five years ago, can Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak find the broken pieces of their friendship and piece them back together? That is, if you call their ‘friendship’ a friendship at all, will the two find something more than just their partnership and go for it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed so all mistakes are my own! If you see one, don’t hesitate to tell me! Happy readings!

“I’m _positive_ I’m not hearing you right, Leahy. Say that again?”

A flick to the paper ball sitting on his desk and slightly interested eyes flickering it’s trail as it travels in the air and into the wastebasket by the big executive glass doors occupies the minute pause.

“It’s unbelievable, I know. But it’s mandatory, considering his younger brother is marrying _my_ daughter. It’d be easier for the wedding, so she says.”

The man in the official suit straightens up in his seat, body leaning forward on his desk as his fingers gracefully gestures motions in the air as if the other person on the line could see him. His humorous scoff is evident through the receiver.

“You _are_ aware of the reason why Dean Winchester was transferred here in the first place, right? To Kansas City? Away from all—“

“Yes, yes, Robert. I’m physically and mentally aware, _trust me_ ,” the other line snaps in brutal annoyance. There’s a shuffling of what sounds like fabric before the gruff voice continues. “I’ve made extra precautions to ensure Novak and Winchester aren’t on the field together. In fact, Novak has been demoted down to desk job for a while now.”

The man quirks an eyebrow up in surprise at what he was hearing. “Last I heard, it was Winchester who started it. Pretty bold punishment for a crime Novak didn’t willingly participate in.”

There’s a slight laugh, cold and non-humorous. “The damages were enough. As I recall, Agent Novak was the participating partner of Winchester, therefore he’s immediately involved.”

“And _I_ recall that Agent Winchester caught the UnSub and refrained him from doing anymore damages.”

“And how many years did it take for him to do that?” The other line replies just as quick and sharp. “After multiple murders in the tens and wasted resources on months of useless surveillance only to be tricked by the Trickster. _Again_.”

There’s a triumphant cold smile on the man’s face as he leans back in his big leather chair and responds. “And like I said, _my_ agent caught him before he could do anymore damage. What have _your_ agent been doing besides filling out paperwork and logging cases into the computers?”

There’s a grumble on the other end and the man knows he won. There’s a clearing of throat before the other line speaks again, official and serious.

“I expect him back at D.C. in the next few days, Robert. No exceptions.” The line clicks immediately after that and Robert reaches over his desk to end the speaker call.

Leaning back in his chair, he swivels his big boss chair and takes the opportunity to stare out of his glass office and onto the hustling working agents one platform down. His eyes immediately scans for the agent and it doesn’t take long to find the man.

Dean Winchester is sitting on the edge of his desk, surrounded by other agents, laughing and talking and making hand gestures that are unknown to someone who isn’t standing in his circle. He doesn’t have his suit jacket on, instead having that draped across the back of his chair at his desk. Even if Robert, the director of the FBI field office here in Kansas City, couldn’t hear the conversation being made, the known smirk and charming smiles on Dean Winchester’s face is enough to tell him that the man’s not all that. Underneath all that bravery and suit that the man wears, hiding behind a badge, he knows the man is hiding something deep down. Something dark.

With a shake of his head and a weary sigh, Robert tears himself away from the scene and reaches in front of his desk for the telephone. He presses on a couple buttons before he waits, the line ringing almost definitely before a woman picks up and answers.

“Yeah, Katherine? Schedule a transfer for an agent please.”

“Yes, sir. To which branch, sir?”

“FBI headquarters in DC. Effective immediately.”

There’s a pause and sounds of keyboard keys clicking before the woman resurfaces. “Okay. Which agent are you transferring, sir?”

Robert spares a glance outside his office and onto the platform beneath. “Winchester. _Dean_ Winchester.”

                     ________

“Daddy, why do you wear a tie to work?”

It’s a simple question, one that Castiel would have answered with ease. But the more he thought about it, the more it became mind-boggling. Why does he wear a tie to work? Is it because of its authoritative aura? Or the serious vibe it gives to normal folks people that tells them they’re here to do business with little to none tomfoolery? Or is just because he’s doing what humans do: follow the norms of society? Either way, he’s forced to wear the tie due to the high standards of the FBI rules and attire.

“That’s an excellent question, honey,” Castiel tells her as he fetches a small glass of apple juice he’d laid out earlier. Sliding it over to Claire to accentuate with her daily dose of cereal, he shrugs his shoulders and tries his best to explain. “I suppose it’s because humans need something to exert dominance over someone, hence the tie. It’s been engrained into humanity and its culture and I don’t know. Humans are special beings, Claire.”

“But aren’t you a human too, Daddy?” she asks with an innocent tilt of her head, eyes boring Castiel’s cobalt blue ones in confusion.

Castiel shrugs his shoulders as he leans against the counter with his favorite coffee mug decorated in animated bees in hand. “Eat your cereal, honey. I’ll get back to you with my answer.”

“Promise?” Claire giggles as she lifts a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth, remnants of dripping milk slipping from the corners of her mouth.

“On bees everywhere,” Castiel promises with a smile and a slight chuckle as he grabs a paper towel on the counter and proceeds to wipe his daughter’s mouth dry.

The drive to the Ridgewood Cemetery is filled with alphabet songs and broken sing-a-longs. With fresh flowers picked from Jasmine’s Bouquet, the widowed husband and his three year-old paid their daily respects to the colorful, well-groomed grave, with Claire clearing the leaves off of the stone that read **_AMELIA NOVAK._ ** Time stamped from 1980 to 2015. Per routine, Castiel only stands to the side with his hands stuck inside his tan trench coat, distant eyes watching his daughter attempt a one-sided conversation with the headstone as her little nimble fingers caress the bouquet of flowers they’d bought earlier.

They spend about a few minutes more until they move on to the lake, pausing for half an hour to graciously feed the ducks. There’s little conversation made between the two, with Claire humming contently to herself as she bounds forward to the car ahead of Castiel. There’s even more sing-a-longs in the car that quickly switches to classical once Claire is dropped off at daycare then to silence as soon as Castiel parks his car in the FBI parking lot. It’s the same routine every day since 2015. Wake up, get dressed, have cereal, visit the florist then the cemetery, feed the ducks, drop Claire off at daycare, then go to work.

It’s been so engrained into their lives for three years straight that Castiel doesn’t give care to it anymore. He wakes up even without an alarm at the same exact time and they leave at the same exact time for the past three years. Everything is a routine and he’s convinced there’s nothing that could change that. Little does Castiel know, it’s the past that’s about to come knocking into their lives and disfigure their perfect routine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta-ed, so all mistakes are my own. Happy readings, all!
> 
> Also, sorry if this is a little bit long. It was originally made into two chapters but I didn’t like where they left off so I merged the two.

The FBI doesn’t discriminate. Or so they claim not to. But the truth is, there is an obvious divider between those who do well and those who don’t. It’s highlighted by agents who is stuck behind desks at the bureau, and those who are absent behind their non-existent ones, who are out in the field based on work excellence and blind obedience. That’s not to say that those who are stuck with desk duty is any lower than those field agents, they’re mostly just there because they’ve either been demoted or they decided to think for themselves instead of following the FBI’s orders. For Castiel, the choice was the former.

Clearly, in his honest opinion, he doesn’t think he did anything wrong to get where he is now. He was just an innocent partner who got roped into his stupid ex-partner’s knavish acts. It’s been more than 4 years now since it happened, bordering on their fifth anniversary of tainting the status of the FBI in the public eye. Ever since that day Castiel has been stuck behind a desk, fresh nameplate glued down permanently to signify the bureau’ disappointment over something he has no guilty recollection of.

Despite everything, the department is all about partnerships and the credo seal of working together accomplishes more than working alone. It’s one of the downsides of being stuck behind a desk. Castiel gets to watch his partner slither in and out of the office on occasions, getting some action out in the field because the guy is on probation after his one year ban to deskwork duty. It also doesn’t help that his partner is the office’s main source of entertainment. Flirting, complaining, _talking._ At first, he’s a little irritated about it, but over the course of five years and some brutal cringeworthy talks, he’s grown used to the talkative guy. Castiel usually tunes the sidechat out sometimes when he’s aggravated and he has a lot of filing he needs to do, but mostly, he multitasks and listens. It helps him know what the latest gossip is, not that he gives too much attention to it, it’s just entertaining to see how much drama his coworkers go through everyday.

“I thought she was with Lee?” Castiel mumbles absently, fingers flying over the keyboard at lightning speed, his eyes narrows slightly as he squints at an error, ceasing his fingers for a split second as he deletes the mistake before continuing on.

“She didn’t seem to care last night,” was the slick overconfident response Castiel gets. He could imagine the cocky smirk on Balthazar’s face and he resists the urge to comment, having grown used to stubbornness of the man.

It’s always like this. Somehow Balthazar always finishes his assignments early, and when he does he’s usually bored. That’s when he normally confides in Castiel, filling him in on the latest gossip in the outside world as well as the world inside here. Not that Castiel minds, Balthazar is a pretty solid friend, filled with nonstop humor and at times, annoyance, but the man can be a real comfort when need be.

“Your escapades never cease to amaze me, Balthazar,” Castiel replies, a slight tug pulling one corner of his lips up into a teasing smile. “It’s a wonder why they let you back into the field. Aren’t they aware of your, uh, coitus-driven motto?”

Unlike other offices across the United States, the main controlling FBI headquarters here in Washington D.C. has desks in combinations of fours. Two bureau desks are side by side while the remaining two are joined opposite them so whoever was sitting across could see what the other was doing. Balthazar, assigned to him for partner for five years now, is situated comfortably in his chair across from him, feet propped up on his desk, a clear violation of FBI conduct #421b Section 2A.

There’s a quick sting on Castiel’s cheeks that throws him off his work bend. The small blue-colored crumpled Post-It note tumbles down and rolls just a few feet away from his keyboard, settling just centimeters beside the stack of paperwork he has yet to complete on his desk. Castiel huffs an air of annoyance. Balthazar _knows_ how much he hates when people did that to him.

There’s a squeak coming from the chair across from him and the next moment, his computer screen is turned sideways, Balthazar’s smirking face appearing in its absence.

“Jealous, are we?” Balthazar clicks his teeth with a sigh, leaning back into his seat as he shoots Castiel with a bummed look. “Ah, sadly I can’t tease you.”

Castiel frowns and tilts his head in confusion, eyes analyzing Balthazar as always. There’s a questioning look in his eyes and Balthazar nods his head along, looking extremely sad.

“I was taught to respect my elders,” Balthazar bites out with a sad frown. Castiel’s quizzical look slowly changes into one of his famous non-amused glare.

“I’m 38, Balthazar. You’re 40 years old. If anyone is old here, it’s you,” Castiel rolls his eyes in return before he snaps his computer screen back. He starts to type a few words before his computer screen is turned again. This time Balthazar has his fingers holding it in place.

Castiel turns his head upwards, an annoyed glare set on his partner’s quirked eyebrows. “Balthazar, I have work to finish. So could you please..?” Castiel gestures his hands to his computer impatiently and Balthazar lets go. _Thank heavens._

“You’re allowed to say the word ‘ _sex_ ’, you know,” Balthazar responds before Castiel pulls his computer to block his face. “Coitus makes me think of a sausage gone rogue with a coin.”

“Coitus is the formal word for it,” Castiel replies with ease, finishing up the last words of the file. “People still use the word, Balthazar.”

“Yeah,” Balthazar scoffs out with a slight uphitch to his voice. “ _Old_ people. Besides, you blush when you hear the word sex. When I hear the word coitus—“

There’s an audible shiver coming across and Castiel snaps his head up, flustered for a moment. He moves his chair slightly to the left and huffs a defensive look to his partner.

“I don’t _blush_ ,” Castiel defends with a frown, “when I hear that word.”

Balthazar is grinning, fierce determination flashing through his eyes as he leans forward. “I mastered my certifications of Psychology, Castiel, I think I can analyze a minor detail or two about my partner. And I _have_ concluded that you _do_ blush when you hear _that_ word.”

Balthazar leans back, a cocky smile on his face that proves he’s won this time around. He gives a careless shrug, bottom lip jutting out slightly. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t blush.”

Castiel sets his glare upon Balthazar’s cocky ones. He doesn’t have time for this. He has work that needs completing and he really doesn’t fancy the idea of staying late to finish. So with a sigh, Castiel manages a dramatic roll of his eyes before he pushes his chair to the right and focuses his attention on his computer screen.

“I’m not playing chicken with you, Balthazar,” Castiel replies with another set of eye roll ready. “Some of us actually _act_ our age.”

There’s a slight scuffle before Balthazar responds with a mock to his tone. “Geez, get Winchester out of your ass, will ya?”

It’s enough to draw Castiel out of his focus. He blinks a few times before he pushes his chair to the left again, his partner’s face appearing once more.

“He was never in my—“ Castiel’s brows furrow in complete confusion, cheeks slightly red at the weird statement. “ _What?_ ”

Ah, one of Balthazar’s favorite reactions. Flustered, blushing Castiel. Castiel immediately curses to himself the moment that tiny hint of smirk started to form on the edge of his devilishly mischievous partner’s lips. Balthazar tosses his arms forward, in a dramatic show of showing off his non-existent muscles, before he pushes them behind his head. He’s leaning back into his chair, his black dress shoes painting his desk with white scuff marks as he crosses one feet over the other.

“It’s been five years, Castiel. You don’t think I know what happened at that strip club slash bar that led to one of the FBI’s greatest downfall and your demotion?”

Castiel narrows his eyes at his partner, a scoff slipping from his lips. He’s about to respond, to call Balthazar out, tell him he doesn’t know anything, when an idea pops into his head. An amusing smirk slips onto his face as Castiel leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, why don’t you tell me and I’ll think if you know it or not,” Castiel goads with a smug smile. “Come on, Balthazar, don’t be shy. Hit me with your best shot, pal.”

He seems so confident as he pushes his feet off his desk and pushes in his chair, leaning in as if he’s about to whisper a huge criminal plot that’s about to go down. Balthazar’s eyes are twinkling with cockiness as he tells exactly what Castiel expects him to say and the blue eyed federal agent can’t help but play along, at least for a while.

When Balthazar is finished talking, the man leans back with an overconfident glint in his eyes, a wide cocky smirk on his face as he raises one of his eyebrows and waits for Castiel’s confirmation. Castiel burrows his head, eyes staring distantly at the brown oak of his desk.

“You know what? You’re right…”

There’s a restrained sound of excitement and a clap of happiness coming from across. Castiel lifts his head up, nodding grimly at his partner’s energized state of thinking he’s right.

“I don’t think you know at all,” Castiel shakes his head at himself, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue as he leans back with a hum of faux disappointment. “Man, and to think I’m always right. First timers’  luck, I suppose.”

“Wa-wait, what?” Balthazar laughs incredulously, leaning forward again, a confused frown clashing unevenly with his slowly faltering smirk. “So what? I’m _wrong_? But I-I’ve gathered intel and...and—“

Castiel sighs dramatically before he shrugs his shoulders and laughs softly. “And you’re still wrong. Come on, Balthazar. I’m not the one who messed everything up, first of all. And second, I didn’t _punch_ Dean—although, I wish I did,” Castiel shrugs again, face brightening up slightly at the idea of getting sweet revenge on the man who ruined his career. “You did get the location right. But so did many others. Sorry. Better luck next time.”

Castiel gives him one last shrug with a sympathetic smile before he pushes his chair back and starts to work on the stacks of paperwork, pulling a new black-ink pen from his pen holder. There’s a barely audible huff and then silence from Balthazar and Castiel can’t help but feel a little pride for himself. Who else could manage to stun the most talkative guy in the office into silence?

Castiel is halfway through the stack when Balthazar decides to break in again. This time, he mentions something that throws Castiel way off-balance and forces him to write off the line, smearing the ink on the paper. Castiel doesn’t give much thought to it thinking he’ll just white it out later, instead his head snaps up and he practically slams his chair to the left.

“What did you just say?” He’s probably not hearing right. It can’t be. There’s no way this could happen to him. No. Way. Surely, God would take mercy on him, right?

Balthazar hums nonchalantly, face focused down onto the pen his fingers are currently fiddling with. “I said, ‘Better suit up, Castiel, because the famous Dean Winchester is transferring back here.’”

Castiel’s heart sinks. His stomach just starts churning horribly and he feels as if he’s going to be sick. This is all just a rumor right? Surely Balthazar can’t be telling the truth. But why would he lie? Now that he thinks about it, the aura of the office is entirely different today. Everyone seems to be whispering in hushed, excited tones, and as Castiel glances around the office, people are actually meeting and averting his gaze, as if they know something he doesn’t. And the truth hits him hard in the guts. _Oh god. Dean Winchester is coming back. God help us all._

 

                       _____

 

“Can you read me a story, Daddy?” Claire asks with a soft smile as she shifts under her star-sprinkled comforter so she’s on her side facing Castiel.

“ _Will_ you read me a story,” Castiel corrects with a gentle look on his face as he kneels down beside Claire, fingers stretched outward to move some of Claire’s brown locks away from her face. He tucks them behind her ear, earning a giggle and a squirm from his daughter which causes him to smile. “What would you like me to read tonight, sweetheart?”

Claire’s eyes are shut but she has a big goofy smile on her face that tells him she’s still awake. She snuggles further into her comforter before answering, a sleepy drawl to her voice.

“The one about the starfish. I like that one.”

Castiel laughs softly under his breath, trailing his fingers down to smooth the wrinkles in her comforter. “Again? Okay, honey. The starfish it is.”

Castiel sits back on the heels of his feet, drawing the comforter further up as he tucks Claire in nice and tight. His voice is soft and soothing, almost dreamy-like.

“One day, an old man was walking along a beach that was littered with thousands of starfish that had been washed ashore by the high tide. As he walked he came upon a young boy who was eagerly throwing the starfish back into the ocean, one by one.” Castiel watches with soft features as Claire’s small fingers that were clutching the top of the comforter slowly starts to sag down, but they almost jerk back awake so Castiel continues. “Puzzled, the man looked at the boy and asked what he was doing. Without looking up from his task, the boy simply replied, ‘I’m saving these starfish, Sir’. The old man chuckled aloud and said, ‘Son, there are thousands of starfish and only one of you. What difference can you make?’”

“Daddy?” There’s a sleepy drawl that draws his attention away from his story-telling and he raises an eyebrow at Claire who’s forcing to keep her eyes half-open. Castiel hums in acknowledgement, letting know he’s still there.

Claire then pulls out her right arm and reaches down the comforter blindly. When she finds what she’s looking for, she brings Castiel’s right hand in her own and squeezes before laying their entwined hands under her chin. Her eyes are at half-mast and she’s staring at Castiel with a soft sigh.

“I miss mommy.”

The whispered words pulls Castiel’s heart in two. His smile wavers for a moment and if he keeps on staring at Claire’s longing look, he might start crying. And that’s not something he wants to happen because it’ll cause Claire to cry too. So he pulls himself together, forces a sad smile on his lips and leans over to plant a small kiss on her forehead. He brushes her hair behind her ears again and whispers,

“I know, honey. I know.”

He pulls back and stands up, pulling his hand back slowly before he tucks the comforter up to Claire’s chin, a small smile and sigh slipping from his lips. Claire’s already asleep the moment Castiel switches the light off and leaves her room, making sure to leave the door slightly open.

Castiel runs a hand down his face once he reaches down to the kitchen to grab his phone that he left on the counter after dinner. Once he’s done locking the door, windows, and shutting the lights off downstairs, he transitions upstairs, turning the hallway lights off. As he passes by Claire’s bedroom, he slows and takes a peek inside. Claire’s sleeping figure is highlighted softly by the soft light of the nightlight that sits just a few feet away in its socket. Castiel smiles one last time before he moves on.

The moment he checks his phone is when he’s changed into his sleeping wear and he’s already snuggled into the king sized bed. The dark hue of the room makes him blink a couple times until his eyes adjusts to the brightness ebbing from his phone’s screen. Castiel releases a yawn as he pulls up his messages, frowning in slight confusion at the unknown phone number sitting in his texts. The moment he pulls it up, he _knows_ . It’s just a single thread with two words and a stupid face made with punctuations but he _knows._ It makes the situation even more real and Castiel can’t help the queasy feeling in his stomach, feeling the contents from tonight’s dinner churn in his stomach.

**_(785)-555-0128: Miss me? ;)_ **

How in the world did Dean Winchester get his number in the first place?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, at long last, an update! Since school is right around the corner, this and my other works are going to have a viciously brutal cycle of prolonged updates. So I apologize in advance, but bear with me, I’ll try to update when I can. 
> 
> Aside from that, happy readings and peace out!

There’s nothing better than the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning. The strong and rich aroma that surfaces and lingers in the air a few minutes after the coffee beans grind with water almost always brings a  content smile to Castiel’s lips. His smile furthers into a face of pure pleasure the moment his lips curl around his favorite mug and the taste of the rich and creamy hot coffee laves over his tongue and down his throat. Castiel releases a soft sigh of contentment when he pulls his mug back.

“Daddy, are you in trouble?” Claire’s voice snaps him out of his euphoria and he tilts his head slightly in confusion, eyes fully open now. Claire is fiddling with the milk in her cereal with her spoon, left palm cradling her face while her elbow is resting on the island counter.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Castiel answers with a smack of his lips, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue as a savory aftertaste. “Why?”

Claire shrugs her shoulders, swirling her spoon in her bowl before she speaks nonchalantly, eyes more interested in the circle-shaped cereal floating in her milk. “Charlie at the daycare always has her phone buzzing and she’s always in trouble with her girl friend because she never answers.”

Just at the right moment, Castiel’s phone buzzes again on the island counter by the box of Cheerios beside Claire and he resists the urge to pick it up and check, knowing full well the text is from Dean. He takes another sip of his coffee in the spare silence, letting another vibration take up the space.

Castiel folds his arms across his chest, mug by his chin as he answers. “I'm not in trouble. And I’m not _not_ answering either. It’s a mutual, uh…” Castiel contorts his face as he scrambles for the right thing to say. “ignorance. Friends do it _all_ the time.”

“Mmmkay,” Claire hums absentmindedly before she scoops up a spoonful of lone milk before shoving it in her mouth, licking her lips afterwards to catch the remnants of the white liquid on the corners of her mouth.

Castiel watches her for a minute, trying to block out the vibration of his phone. Ever since five in the morning, his phone has been blowing up with an enormous amount of texts that wakes him up half an hour earlier than his usual routine of six in the morning. Why Dean is awake at that godforsaken hour is unknown to Castiel and frankly, he doesn’t give a beehive nest about it anyway. He wouldn’t mind if Dean had sent a full thread with _actual_ sentences, but the man likes to pull at his strings and instead, decides that it’s a great idea to send a _long_ string of messages, letter by letter, spelling out god-knows-what. He isn’t going to waste all that time piecing the puzzles. Especially if it’s for the man that caused his pay to decrease and his work to be demoted.

After another thirty seconds of ruthless vibrations with maybe about, ten second pause in between each noise, Castiel leans forward and snatches his phone in his free hand, an irritated look written all over his face as he switches his phone to silent mode before stuffing it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He dumps the content of his mug into the sink afterwards, washing it in a second before he leaves the mug in the dish rack to dry.

It takes another five minutes for Castiel to clean Claire up and make their house look semi-presentable before they’re at the door ready to go. Castiel snatches the car keys off the hooks on the wall by the front door and stretches his right hand out for Claire to take. When she does, Castiel swings open the door with a joyful sigh and the two step out, side by side, like they always have for the past five years. Except this time, Claire is quick to point out something that befuddles Castiel when they’re situated in the car and the engine is running.

“Daddy,” Claire says with a gasp of surprise, fingers pointing to the blinking light above the radio controls, “it’s not 6:40!”

Castiel blinks down to where her fingers are pointing and his breath hitches when he reads **_6:43_** where it should’ve been **_6:40._** _Oh god, we’re three minutes late._

                       _______

The hands of the clock has passed the three hour mark into Castiel’s shift and yet, the ghost of FBI’s past that everyone has been whispering around the office has not appeared. If Castiel knows him, and he _does,_ Dean Winchester isn't known for being extremely late. Despite his egotistical and childish personality, the man has a pet peeve about timing. Surprisingly, that’s the only thing Castiel and he have in common; they’re both particular about arriving on-time and sometimes even earlier.

Maybe it’s the hushed voices around him, or the silent gossip floating around his ears that’s driving Castiel crazy. Or maybe it’s the fact that Dean is late. The thought that Dean may have a later shift than Castiel had slipped through his mind earlier and for a while, Castiel was at peace. But, thanks to Balthazar, Castiel soon learns that Dean is originally meant to arrive at the office at the same time as Castiel, which led him to where he is now; a pen-tapping, fidgety, and tense mess. It’s gotten to the point where even the littlest of sounds could jolt him in his seat. And Balthazar, who has somehow figured out this tick hours ago, used this window of opportunity to his advantage.

“Castiel!” The whispered yell of his name stirs Castiel’s heart to overdrive as his fingers jump in time to his body, fingers now fumbling to catch the pen that has slipped from his fingers from the surprise. He catches it with ease and smacks it down on his table before glaring across from him, chest heaving faster than usual and cheeks warm in color.

Balthazar is grinning at him, finding amusement in his partner’s agitated state. He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, pushing the suit of his jacket aside with his fists.

“I assure you, my friend, the clock has not changed since the last time you looked at it,” Balthazar smirks, “which was a few minutes ago.”

Castiel glares at him in return before silently huffing a short breath as he picks up his pen with vexation before touching the ink-filled tip to the paper. Oh, but Balthazar doesn’t let up. _Why would he?_

“Hey, it’s okay to have PTSD about your boyfriend who crumpled your career.”

He knows Balthazar is teasing him. But something in his short fuse today has him blushing crimson red as he snaps his head up, body tilting left, and causes his words to fluster from his mouth.

“He’s not my—he was never my boy—he _isn’t_ my boyfriend!” Castiel splutters, trying his best to sound angry but the flush on his cheeks gives him away.

Balthazar raises two hands in the air. “ _Ex-_ boyfriend, sorry.”

Castiel glares at him some more, hoping Balthazar gets the hint that he’s about had it up to here. “He was _never_ my boyfriend and he _damn well_ never would be. It’s been _five years_ and I’ve moved on, so no, I don’t suffer any traumatic episodes from the man who _ruined_ my career.”

His partner is quick to jump back with a comment, all teasing looks and playful smiles. “Mmhmm. I don’t know about you but if someone caused me to downgrade my pay and subdue me to desk duty for life, I’d be pretty vengeful. Especially if I was wrongfully accused.”

Castiel manages to rolls his eyes at his comment, feeling suddenly and oddly defensive. “That’s right, Balthazar, that’s _you._ That’s not _me._ I’m not about to hold a grudge and get stuck on the past.”

“Whatever you say, Stockholm Syndrome.” A wink and a smirk flashes in return. Castiel is about to respond, teeth gritting and head about to explode from exasperation, but Balthazar’s attention is caught somewhere else. He only needed to watch his partner’s reaction, from cocky to jaw-dropping, before he finally gives in to the temptations and swings his head to the same direction that everyone is staring at.

If only he could say he was the only one whose surprise didn’t take over their body. He can’t lie. They’re all staring at the glass entrance of the office, where apparently the ghost from the past has appeared with a box under his arms. Castiel would be lying if he says he doesn’t do a thorough body scan of his ex-partner. _Multiple times._

Dean Winchester _has_ changed. Instead of the bedhead hair from five years ago, a coiffed hairstyle took its place on his head, little fluffs of dark honey-kissed hair sticking up in _just the right places_ that Castiel can’t help but imagine the pleasure of his fingers running and tugging through it. There was something about his face too. The way his features are much more defined, more _mature,_ than the last time anyone here has seen him. The sharp outline of his jaw, the visible clench of his teeth as his eyes scout around the office for the first time in five years. Same could be said about his body, it was more broad, muscled, and toned.

Lost in a drooling haze, Castiel’s eyes starts to shift down south, subconsciously shifting himself in his seat as he felt the sudden rush of warmth flush through his body. _Oh god. The way the white dress shirt clings to his body, his hips….then the black belt….his hugging thighs and…—_ Castiel pulls himself away before he could venture down to _that_ area, reflexively fleeing his eyes upward. His breath catches in his throat and his cheeks redden even more, if that was even possible at this point, when emerald green eyes clash with his blues.

There’s a one-sided exchange of that familiar cocky smirk before Dean breaks their contact to greet old pals and new ones as he makes it further into the office with quick strides. Castiel shakes his head, scolding himself on the inside as he focuses back to his keyboard, trying to distract himself for a couple minutes. _What is happening to me?_

**_Thwack!_ **

Castiel flinches back as he shoots upward with a glare set on Balthazar, ready to strike him down as his hands snatches the paper ball that had rolled to a stop by his pen holder. He holds it up, fist of fury squeezing the poor paper ball, an _‘I swear to god’_ coming out of his lips when Castiel stops himself immediately upon realizing he’s talking to an empty chair across from him. Before he could reclaim his embarrassment, a loud thump, followed by a clattering of pens and pencil, occupies his vision to the right of his partner’s desk.

It’s almost like a scene out of a dramatic movie. Castiel’s blue eyes clashes with the mahogany desk line before advancing upward in a slow fashion, taking in the widening slope of the black dress pants then the view of the shiny black belt overcoating the dips and curves of the underrated muscles underneath that white dress shirt. There’s a show of smooth skin showing through the first two unbuttoned buttons then a whole expanse of neck then a sharp jawline, freckled spots across the upper half of his face before those vibrant, emerald eyes greets his blue ones.

A show of white teeth flashes before him and then that familiar baritone voice cuts through his mindset, complete with a platonic flirtatious wink.

“Damn, aren’t you a target for my eyes?”

And if the slack-jawed expression on Castiel’s face is any indication, his whole life is already in ruins.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might get a bit confusing remembering the timeline, so don’t fret, I’ve got it sorted so it’s all the information you need to know in this book...at least the basic outline:
> 
> Dean and Castiel has known each other for 7 years. Castiel is already married when he met Dean via work. Dean is NOT married. Two years after knowing one another, the great big fiasco happens and Dean is transferred out in the country. A year after Dean left, Amelia(Cas’s wife) dies, leaving Castiel alone to raise his daughter, still a baby at the time. Also, this story is taking place in the year of 2019, not 2018.
> 
> That’s basically it? If you’re still confused, don’t hesitate to ask. And for the love of everything, please comment on mistakes in this. It wasn’t beta-ed so I am deeply sorry for any grammatical mistakes.

Someone out there must really be looking out for Castiel. His wishes, his sanity and his cool and calm tantra is finally safe behind heaven’s doors. Not even five minutes into settling, Dean Winchester, that cocky and irritable bastard, was called into Director Leahy’s office and a peaceful two minutes later, Dean’s packing his stuff and he’s moving to another desk across the room.

Obviously, Castiel was ecstatic at the change of seating arrangements but he became overjoyed when he saw who Dean’s partner was. It’s Zachariah Hollins, the new agent fresh out of the academy with little to no experience who is always eager to please. Add to the fact that the guy is pretty lanky and skinny and jittery all the time. Castiel talked to him once, in the break room for a quick run of coffee, and well, the guy isn’t all that good with social interactions nor is he capable of controlling his footing. Needless to say, Castiel needed a spare change of clothes afterwards, and a couple of ice plastered to his chest to soothe the burn. Of course, Castiel isn’t one to hold grudges, so he’s pretty quick to accept the numerous apologies that spat out like rapid fire a second after the guy spilled his coffee on his chest.

He would’ve smiled, should’ve celebrated his silent victory of avoiding his ex-partner. In fact, Castiel had a hint of a victorious smile on the edge of his lips when Dean was packing his stuff. That small smile disappeared soon after he tucks in his chair and pulls his keyboard to his chest, fingers flying rapidly over the keys. He’s sorting the cases that the FBI hasn’t sorted through yet. So in addition to the unfortunate arrival of Dean Winchester, Castiel also gets a firsthand summary of the freshly new cases of gruesome killing sprees and untouched federal cases that needs to be sorted into their respective categories.

Castiel has been doing this job for a while now, and although it isn’t like fieldwork, where every moment of your life could end if you make a simple wrong step, he has to say that this part of his job made him appreciate the background workings that happens in this line of work. When he was a field agent, he didn’t get a say as to which cases he could work on, he was just handed one and was strictly expected to complete it as quickly as possible. The only information he’d ever read was the one forced on him, and sitting here, going through cases and organizing them correctly, his mind is filled with gruesome tales of unknown killers and crimes that, in his opinion, never knew was even possible. And the hard truth of it all? Most of the cases Castiel goes through are sorted into a system that has over a hundred pages of cases that, even to this day, still remains unsolved. It angers him to see all these criminals get away with their malicious acts and he wished that he could’ve done something about it. But what could he do? He’s just a notorious agent who defamed the FBI and whose job is to sort and sign paperwork all day.

There’s an incessant vibration rocking his desk that startles him out of his depressing world. His typing ceases and Castiel exhales a breath before he tends to his phone, grateful but slightly agitated for the distraction. His brows furrow greatly as he reads the texts over, and his whole body recoils on the inside. Instinctively, his eyes shoots upward to where Dean is stationed.

The man is leaning back in his chair, lips pulled together out of boredom, with one of his hands occupied with clutching his phone. As if he could sense someone watching him, Dean Winchester raises his gaze over his phone and grins stupidly when he meets Castiel’s eyes. Dean lifts his phone in the air and shakes it as if Castiel is supposed to just magically understand the context of what he’s conveying. Then Dean mouths something along the lines of _‘I’m not going to stop until you check your phone’_ because Castiel can easily read lips. He’s been picking up a few tricks here and there which have helped him in previous years when he was sent out to do some undercover work.

If the twitch of his eyes is any indication, Castiel is beyond irritated. And Dean _knows_ that. The man always finds buttons to push. It's what drove their relationship apart in the first place. Castiel admits, they were close once. _Extremely_ close. Like ‘ _come over to each other’ house for dinner every Friday night_ ‘ kind of close. Back then, Dean hadn’t fully evolved maturely like he is now. He also wasn’t married back then, only Castiel was. He’d only been married for a year to Amelia when he started working with the bureau and Dean helped him out a lot. He taught Cas the ropes, how to properly do this and that, the tiny little techniques he uses out in the field. It was only fair that Castiel invite him over for dinner which surprisingly turned into a weekly thing. They were good friends, but they exceeded in their partnership. Their chemistry allowed them to solve more cases than any duo in the history of the agency. To put it together, Dean and Castiel made it into the FBI’s Top Ten list of favorite agents. Now? _Now_ , they were on the Top Ten Screw-Ups list.

They weren’t always like this; one of them always stepping on the other’ nerves, getting into simple talks which will eventually turn into yet another heated argument - which usually results in Dean storming out and crashing everything within his proximity just before he does so - no, it wasn’t _always_ like that.

Castiel looks down, a frown on his face. He has no obvious recollection of when their relationship decided to go awry. One minute, Dean was smiling and joking and Castiel was commenting on Dean’s obvious need to settle down, playfully bantering like two idiots, and the next, Dean’s slamming Castiel’s car door shut and Cas’s voice is hoarse from shouting and Dean is just a brooding figure stomping far, far away. There should’ve been something in between, an anecdote that could explain how - _why,_ this happened. But Castiel couldn’t think of any. Was it his fault? It surely couldn’t have been his, he was a well brought up gentleman and Dean was…

 _It must be Dean_ , Castiel finalizes inside his head with great determination. Dean was always the impulsive one of the two and his lack of maturity was always the one that sparked up a little argument that quickly escalated into door-slamming quarrels. There’s another buzz and Castiel finally thinks he’s had enough of this and decides to get it done and over with.

He’s not even halfway through reading all the texts (which are mostly three dots and an obnoxious amounts of greetings, half of which Castiel is sure don’t belong to a know language) when a sudden voice behind him causes him to jump in his seat as his fingers fumble to lock his phone quickly. There’s no chance on earth that he would let Balthazar know that he was texting Dean. All the torment he’d have to endure….

Castiel physically shuddered at the thought before he pulls himself together and accepts the clap to his shoulders from his partner, who is completely oblivious to what just happened.

“Come on, man, I’m starving. Let’s go to Jo’s. I hear they have that Triple Comeback in season again.”

As much as he’d like to stay here and ponder, maybe even finish his work, Balthazar’s right. Not only is his partner starving, but Castiel could feel his stomach rumble at the thought of eating at Jo’s again. So he obeys and goes to drape his trench coat over his arm before walking towards the exit. Balthazar’s already there, shuffling impatiently from one foot to the next, one hand already on the slick metal handles. He’s shooting Castiel an exasperated look and Castiel can’t help but roll his eyes and starts to pick up his pace.

“ _God_ , took you long enough,” Balthazar huffs before pushing through the door once Castiel is a foot away. He follows suit, daring to spare a glance over his shoulders, hoping...hoping that maybe he’ll find him staring at Castiel as he leaves.

Sadly enough, Dean’s not even facing his direction, he’s too busy talking - most likely, flirting - with a female coworker who was, disgustingly, practically draping herself over Dean’s desk. And he’s just eating it up too; his not-so-subtle fingers slowly inching towards _her_ hands, that known smirk and that stupid eye thing he does.

So Castiel turns and leaves, wondering why he doesn’t feel so hungry anymore, more like he wants to throw up than consume anything. But, like everything weird that’s come to light since Dean came back, he brushes it away and continues life as if that minute detail had never happened.


	5. Chapter 5

The one thing Castiel hates more than desk duty is _more_ desk duty. He’s being dumped with another caseload which easily translates into staying later than his normal working hours. That wasn’t what ticked him over, caused him to stomp silently back to his desk as he tried to refrain his frustration with Charlie on the phone, the daycare manager taking care of Claire as he works. No, no, the thing that pushed him over was the fact that this ‘ _overtime’_  wasn’t really ‘ _overtime_ ’ at all. He isn’t getting paid for staying a couple hours later. According to his director, this is what he calls ‘part of the package’ — an undisguisable reference to his demotion five years ago.

Charlie, the saint she is, gladly said it was no problem at all, which helped lift his mood up a bit. But not entirely. He’s too worked up, whether from the fourth cup of coffee or the fact that the slamming of his fingers are the only noise in the slightly barren office, way past busy working hours. The night shifters are cruising in for their work now, and Castiel spots a few familiar looking faces back when he was on call 24/7 as a federal field agent.

He’s squinting at his screen, occasionally flipping his attention to the Manila case file that was held open by his forearm. He’s a fast typer, and sure he could get this done under two hours max but it still doesn’t excuse the money he’s _not_ going to be earning from this. Just thinking about it makes him more riled up again and Castiel concludes that he needs more coffee.

Blindly, he reaches to the left of him with his left arm, letting the case file snap shut as the weight holding it down disappears. He fumbles blindly but carefully for a smooth plastic cup and he’s satisfied when his fingers grip one. It quickly diminishes when he lifts it up too easily, scowling when his eyes take a break from his screen to stare into the empty coffee-stained insides of the cup. He doesn’t care that his groan is too loud or that the cup he was holding before had rolled off his desk with a soft thump when he let it go. He’s a grown man and he’s allowed to showcase his displeasure.

There’s a clearing of throat before a curtain of blue catches his peripheral vision and from years of instinct, he tugs a hand to the right, fingers circling the warm sleeve of a coffee cup. It’s only then that he exempts from his work and brings his other hand to cocoon the cup, taking a small satisfactory sip before he pulls away, a satisfied groan slipping from his lips. He had his eyes closed and he opens them with a cautious but curious glance, chair slightly turned to his right to see who his savior was. He’s flushed with embarrassment when he realizes it’s Dean Winchester.

When he’s done, he holds the warm cup in his lap with both hands and sheepishly smiles at Dean. “That’s embarrassing.”

Dean, clad in a dashing dark blue suit complete with a black tie sits at the edge of Castiel’s desk, his left thigh stretching over the wood while his right supports him from the ground. It makes his slacks seem tighter than it is and Castiel should really stop staring at his legs before he makes this more embarrassing than it needs to be. Thankfully, Dean doesn’t notice his staring because he’s busy laughing softly at whatever Castiel said. What exactly did he say? Oh god, he must really be getting old to forget even the simplest of things.

“Oh please. I’ve seen you stick a piece of LEGO brick up your nose,” Dean muses as if that’s supposed to make things better. He brings his own cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip, smacking his lips before sneaking his tongue out in a quick swipe that left his lips looking deliciously hot. 

Castiel could feel himself grow hot at the sight and quickly looks away, forces himself to cash out a quick response so Dean wouldn’t suspect that his ex-partner of five years had been stealing covert glances in his direction. Not that Castiel has ever done that before. He never would and he never did. He didn’t like Dean like _that._

“Whatever,” mumbles Castiel, stalling the time by taking another long sip of his coffee. He pulls the cup away from his lips, cheeks slightly filled with coffee to cool, too hot to swallow straight down.

His cheeks are red. And it’s not from the heat in his mouth caused by the hot liquid or the idea that he was previously thinking about thinking of Dean like _that._ But it’s because a particular pair of now heavy light green eyes that always reminds Castiel of a beautiful forest unmarked on the map and untouched by civilization is focused on something else other than Cas’s eyes.

It’s on his face, that he knows for sure. Castiel has an idea of what Dean is staring at but he doesn’t dare venture into the topic. It’s not that bad, it’s only when Dean involuntarily wets his lip and slowly brings his eyes up to meet Cas’s wide eyes that it goes down the wrong hole.

The liquid leaves his throat tingly and itchy and he has no choice but to cover his mouth with his arm and erupt in a fit of coughing that sent Dean off his seat and immediately into Castiel’s personal space. He doesn’t bother answering Dean’s rapid questions of concern, instead he tries to wave it off with his other hand, trying to speak and clearly failing. 

After a while, he clears his throat and recovers, wiping his red eyes and coughs one last time, voice rough and sandpaper-y and says, “I-I’m okay.”

Dean doesn’t look an ounce convinced so Castiel brushes his hand away from where it sits on his shoulders and nods his head, slightly annoyed at the attention he has. “I should get back to my work. I have to pick up my kid and… what?”

Dean’s put some distance between them but he’s still kneeling before Castiel, one knee on the ground like he’s about to propose. He has this weird expression on his face, a mixture of shock and surprise and confusion and something else Cas can’t decipher but he thinks it’s something akin to guilt. _Why would Dean feel guilty?_

Dean opens his mouth and says, “You have a kid?”

Castiel clears his throat and he has no idea why his cheeks feel hot but it does and he nods. Dean must’ve expected him to elaborate further and when Castiel doesn’t engage he presses.

But stops when he opens his mouth. Dean’s overthinking it. He wants to press further but he’s also not dumb. Clearly, if Castiel has a kid, it must’ve been after Dean got transferred. There was no way in hell that Castiel and Amelia had a kid when Dean was around and if they did, where would they hide it? It’s not like the Novak’s house is suited for a revival of Flowers In The Attic with a different circumstance.

So yeah, Dean would ask but he’s not going to. At least not now. He knows that being demoted means a lesser salary and as a former FBI Field Agent, Dean made roughly $65,000 a year. So far his pay only decreased by a thousand or so but if rumors he hears are right, Castiel has it worse than he does. So he shuts his mouth and awkwardly stands up.

“Awesome. So, uh, I’ll let you get back to work?”

It sounds like a question and Castiel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it further. He offers an accepting nod and turns to resume his work, immediately immersing himself inside his work.

 

                   ___________

Dean doesn’t know what’s wrong with himself. He’s paced the office perimeter with his nth cup of coffee numerous of times. No, scratch that. He knows exactly what’s wrong with himself. But he doesn’t want to revisit that and have a mental breakdown in the office so he takes a shaky breath as he rounds the corner and continues his walk.

The sight of hurried motion in front of him catches his eyes and as he approaches Castiel’s desk, he speeds up so that he could catch him in time. Although there’s a slight panic as he stands by Castiel’s desk, what the hell would he say? Castiel seems in such a hurry to leave…

_That’s right!_ He has a kid to pick up! So drawing a blank and running on nerves and caffeine, Dean says, “Say hi to your son for me!”

If there was a god, he must be raining hail on Dean. The moment those words fell from his lips, Dean flinched at the cringe worthiness of it. It reminded him of himself during middle school when he was stuck doing a project with a pretty girl he had a big fat crush on. Turns out, it’s a really bad idea to really distract yourself and put extra magnesium into the flame which may or may not have turned into a full-on fire emergency of burnt long hair and cold glares through red eyes.

Castiel only grunts in response and he shrugs on the last of his coat before slinging his bag on his shoulders. Before Dean can really control himself, he blurts out, “So I was thinking maybe we could have lunch together tomorrow? It’d be a good time to catch up ya know and talk about—“

“Yeah, yeah, Dean, you have a great night too,” Castiel cuts him off, pushing in his chair in his rush. “I’m sorry I have to go. I have to—“

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before he turns around and leaves Dean all alone. Dean doesn’t even protest, just watches Castiel’s retreating figure disappear in a flash around the bend of the hallway and then it’s just him. All alone. Again.

It’s only when Dean’s sitting at his desk does he groan loudly, causing a few heads to turn his way. His partner, Zachariah is wide eyed across from him, completely startled by Dean’s sudden noise.

“He didn’t tell me if it was a boy or a girl!”

Dean groans again, looking at his partner as if he knows the context of what he’s talking about. And if Zachariah is startled and confused, the statement only leaves him with red cheeks and a speechless expression. To which Dean doesn’t pay any attention to as he bangs his head on his desk, hoping he might erase his head from existence.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are appreciated so don’t be a shy penguin! :) Any type of criticisms are welcome too!


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